Dreams Before Sleep
by Java Trinomial
Summary: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Before I fall to sleep, I think sometimes on these... Reviews appreciated.
1. Thy Name is Cruelty

For I had forgotten why I had left,  
and so alone I was, I wanted to be back.  
  
I closed my eyes, in my bed,  
and shut everything down.  
No sight, no sound, no thoughts around.  
  
And I believed - did I believe?  
Tried to believe with all my heart  
Imagined God on his throne there  
so real in the world I paint with thoughts.  
Jesus and Mary and the angelic choir,  
and I as a sinner, and I knelt and I begged.  
I asked forgiveness, to recieve me back.  
I asked for Jesus to come talk to me.  
I said the words and meant them  
as hard as I could to try to return.  
  
For I had forgotten why I had left,  
and so alone I was, I wanted to be back.  
  
I made the picture, and waited.  
I waited.  
I waited.  
  
I waited for the touch, for the knowledge inside.  
Like they all say, when you're saved you'll know it.  
I held that portrait in my heart, waiting  
for the touch of God to make it fast.  
  
For I had forgotten why I had left  
and so alone I was, I wanted to be back.  
  
Cried out to Jesus in that sleep,  
Come talk to me, your lonely sheep.  
Respond for once, by any means  
In feelings, thoughts, or in dreams  
  
The angels sang, and God was still,  
and Jesus and Mary sat by him.  
Cried out, "I am a sinner, Lord,  
For once, just send a whisper!"  
  
For I had forgotten why I had left  
and so alone I was, I wanted to be back.  
  
But the tears flowed, and the portrait melted.  
For no touch of God came to my heart.  
No hint, no whisper, no thread of Joy,  
nothing to show he cared at all for me.  
  
Christians, I did what you wanted me to.  
And all I have recieved is a flood of despair  
in a cold empty bed.  
  
How wonderful God is when you see him.  
How glorious, his love, how exultant.  
You lucky Christians, embraced in love  
when the crucified one holds but the nails from her cross.  
  
No, young Christians who glory in God,  
I don't believe you know what you speak.  
Of pain and despair, you've not tasted the cup.  
I have drunk one draught, and I weep for those  
who drink all their days of that poisoned mix.  
I know I am lucky with only one cup.  
  
I cannot tell you what true persecution is.  
And I am not so wicked as to wish it on you.  
I have tasted it's bread, foullness unspeakable,  
and I weep for those who eat it all their days.  
  
I cry for the days when I was a child  
and life was happiness and sheltered  
and sadness was a scape of the knee  
and loneliness was cured by running to Nana's bed.  
  
...  
  
I believe not in God because he shows himself not,  
like he apparently does to the lucky innocents.  
If it was so easy to give me one touch...  
  
if it is so easy, and you do it not...  
  
if you comfort not the bereft of joy and hope...  
  
then God, thy name is cruelty. 


	2. The One I Had Called Jesus

"Who are you, then?" I asked,  
in the stifling lukewarmth of my bed  
laying under covers in the monochromatic   
of the room.  
  
"Who are you, who spoke to me,  
companion on the forest paths,  
protector in the highways of school?  
What angel or demon conversed with me,  
and whom did I call Jesus?"  
  
No answer for a moment -   
while the tears began to flow.  
And as the ache of despair came,  
it was one whisper - "You."  
  
And he was there --  
speaking in the same tone as he had before,  
when, crying out to God, I asked for him.  
He was in my mind, answering me,  
The one I had called Jesus.  
  
Tears dried a moment out of shock.  
"Are you Jesus?" I asked.  
With the pause, the hurt kept on,  
more open the tear in my soul.  
  
"Am I?" he said.  
  
"Who then are you," I begged him now.  
And with a smile, he told me, "You,"  
  
"I am your nobility, and your kindness of thought,  
Your hope personified, a person of love.  
When you were alone, you spoke to me,  
imbuing to me a somewhat seperate voice."  
  
"You are me?" I asked, and he smiled,  
shriugged and smiled, the Prince inside,  
The one I had called Jesus.  
  
"You needed someone to love you alone,  
and parents nor family did this.  
You planted a garden with the idea of a friend,  
with love and tears you watered it.  
And thus a friend came forth."  
  
Even as I sobbed and could not speak,  
his voice was calm and soothing.  
  
"I am not the Jesus of scripture or faith.  
If any, I am the Jesus of love.  
But I am not Jesus, the Son of God,"  
Said the one I had called Jesus.  
  
"Are you Dios?" I asked.  
  
He smiled.  
  
"I am no Savior, no prince on a white horse.  
For you are not one, and I am you.  
I am merely your Goodness, and your Truth.  
You made the puppet, but do not pull the strings."  
  
I caught the scent of roses.  
  
"I am a golem, for your words are my mind.  
Jesus and Buddha and Ganhdi amongst it.  
Some part your conscience, some part your comforter.  
The one you had called Jesus.  
But not God, or Mary, of Holy Spirit -  
No, I am not Jesus."  
  
The voice was silent, I alone was there.  
And slowly, I lost my pain and fear.  
  
  
  
(A/N) I really didn't realize, since I end up skimming through HB's insanely long and oh-so-poignant reviews, but this is my refutation to this quote: "After all, my imagination can't speak to me. It can't give me wisdom. It can't give me strength. It can't give me joy when all my mind knows is pain." Reread this and tell me an imagination can't do all of that. 


	3. Crystaline Ambivalent Spirit

trying to nap, but I can't sleep  
ambient light in the classroom  
keeps my consiousness above the threshhold  
of blissful dreams.  
  
Sunlight filtering through the window  
reflects onto my desk, and I ponder  
what protons look like up-close-and-personal.  
If white light is made of all colors,  
if I was the size of an electron,  
would it be as a rainbow marble jar?  
  
I imagine, and my soul fills with joy  
for Beauty, ideals we cannot grasp  
ideals we can only say, "ii des" or "arimasen"  
to explain them.  
for all definitions cannot capture the essence,  
ideas are worth ten thousand words  
and a million thoughts.  
the spirit of inspiration.  
  
Holy Spirit, is it you who does such?  
Or are you another sporadic nightmare?  
  
Holy Spirit, ignored and alone.  
you are no father, to ruffle the children's heads.  
you are no son, a boyfriend, an unequal peer.  
undefined and untaught.  
the spirit of Christianity?  
  
No poems expound your greatness.  
No essays emphasize your warm embrace.  
not even I know you, and how well do I know  
the religion of the slaves?  
  
what are you, truly?  
the spirit of the Church?  
was it you who told them to go on Crusade,  
make an Awakening and burn the heretics?  
be it thou who tell them to pray and pray  
convert insanely as their only goal?  
are you the one putting kindness into hearts,  
understanding, love, friendship without judgement?  
  
I don't really know who you are.  
Few do, I believe,  
(berenwasteland probably does - he is wise in ways I am a fool)  
  
I'm not really angry with you,  
or dissapointed or lost.  
How do you miss what you never had at all?  
  
But the bell rings - discordantly loud.  
Flurry of people, and I must awaken my body  
to return to another class.  
  
  
(A/N) I wanted to round it off for now, make it a trilogy. Reviews accepted. Also, I'm hoping to have the next chapter of "Fighting the Beast" up by tonight. I love when I wake up to a flurry of reviews. And yeah, beren, there was no sarcasm involved. *small bow in general direction* 


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